


Use Me, Hurt Me, Don't Let Me Go

by maitimiel



Category: Love Nikki Dress Up Queen
Genre: M/M, Power Imbalance, The 6th Clinic, This Game Is So Cute I Love It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-13 23:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14758118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maitimiel/pseuds/maitimiel
Summary: The night before his great crime, Curt is with the doctor, waiting. They don't talk much.





	Use Me, Hurt Me, Don't Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beautiful Faeryn for doing a lovely beta job on this fic. :*

The doctor is looking through the window, focused and sharp. He stands just enough to the side that the moonlight coming in can't reach him, but his eyes are as clear as ever as he watches the empty street. Curt wonders if he is expecting something, anything to disrupt the quietness of the night. They're not quite hiding - certainly remaining in the very clinic the doctor had once been kicked from is not the sneakiest of plans - but arguing that fact had been nigh pointless. The minute Curt learned they'd be acting in the Apple Federation, he knew where they would be staying. Dr. Grey Raven could hardly resist the draw of his old domains.

The doctor is never talkative, except when he finds a new project to obsess about, and even on those occasions he speaks mostly to himself. Curt knows the doctor likes to hear admiring noises from his mouth, but doesn’t otherwise pay attention. He can't, when he has a scheme. Curt would tolerate this lack of consideration in exchange for the nearly childish glee and shiny eyes he'd get when they succeed. It had always been like this. Still, tonight feels different. The silence gets under his skin.

Curt is sitting on the countertop next to a rusty sink. The room is a mess of old equipment pushed against the walls, the dust so thick each of their steps leaves a mark. It feels too small, like the walls might close in around them, like the door might shrink and not let them out, like in a minute he’ll no longer be able to breathe.

"Where will you be tomorrow?" Curt asks, his voice ringing loud in his ears, and even then the doctor takes a moment to respond, as if he hasn't heard him.

When the doctor looks at him, there is a shadow of a grin on his lips.

"Where I'm needed."

"And I don't suppose that'll be by my side."

"What good would that do?" The doctor looks away again, nonchalant. 

Curt isn’t a child. He doesn’t need to be coddled, doesn’t need to hear soft words muttered under his ears. But he won’t be ignored, and he won’t be left in the dark about this crime when _he_ is going to do most of the work. He jumps to the floor, his boots slipping a bit on the dirt. 

Dr. Grey smiles at him with amusement when Curt comes to stand next to him, face near, pressing the man to the nearest wall.

"All eyes will be on you tomorrow," the doctor purrs, "the entire town will be seeking you, the police will follow your every move. Someone should make sure their attentions are directed elsewhere."

"And that's all?" Curt asks, one hand around the doctor's neck, the other fisting his hair, "that's all you'll do?"

"What else?" 

Curt doesn't _know_ , and that's the worst part. He can feel it in every bone of his body that there's more to this scheme than petty robbery, that he is but a puppet in the hands of this white demon, and yet, he can't tell _what_ is going on. What exactly his part is in the heavily orchestrated play the doctor has been conducting, and he can do nothing but follow, ‘cause leaving him would be like leaving his heart behind. Curt is not certain he can, not anymore.

So much for a quiet companion on the road.

"You look beautiful when you're angry," the doctor says, tracing the scar on Curt's cheek with a cold finger. Curt can’t help but smile ironically, "Oh, but you do. I do admit _this_ wasn't my finest work. If you allowed me, I could make it disappear. There are many things I could do for you."

He leans forward and traces the scar with his tongue instead, and Curt _knows_ he's being played, but he also knows he's too far gone to care. His tongue is in the doctor's mouth before he can be bothered to think, his hands weaving in his hair and pulling the front of his shirt and pushing him against the wall and against himself, and is there even a choice to make? His body knows the doctor's, better than his brain knows anything. 

They end up back at the counters, and the doctor's icy fingers are exploring under his shirt insistently, and down the hem of his pants. Curt's own hands are rough where Dr. Grey's are delicate, and yet he's the one undone quickest; heart racing and blood pulsing, his face hot, his nerves all over. He claws and scratches like a cat, but the doctor need only place one soft kiss under his right ear, and Curt is _aching_. 

He tries to reach between his legs, only to receive a small yet painful bite of warning. The two of them lock eyes for almost a whole minute, not a word said. Dr. Grey's eyes are icy blue, unnaturally so, and he looks pale and delicate to Curt. But when he pushes Curt's pants, briefs and all, down to his knees and roughly lifts his hips so he's once more on top of the filthy counters, Curt's knows he's also physically overpowered, like in all else. 

He kicks off his shoes and pants, the metal cold under his naked buttocks, and spits on his palm. 

The doctor watches patiently as Curt works himself open. This isn't proper preparation, but Curt doesn't give a shit anymore. He hasn't been careful with anything in his life for many years now, what did it matter? He has worse things to fear from his lover.

A moment later, the doctor is kissing him again, more ferociously this time, just as he finally pulls his own pants down. 

This Curt has noticed: the doctor doesn't like showing his own skin. Back when they first met, in the hot deserts of Wasteland, Curt had found it somewhat curious that he would rather travel fully clothed, while Curt would tie his shirt to his belt and let the wind lick the heat away. Their first fuck had been in a dark alley behind a fancy hotel they couldn't afford to sleep in, and undressing hadn't crossed his mind then. But it happens again and again. Curt has never seen the man fully naked. He would concede, on occasion, to let his shirt hang open, but how he looks without it, Curt doesn't know. 

Curt groans loudly when he's breached, pleasure and pain now a familiar sensation. The doctor is almost as tall as him even sitting on the countertops, and their lips remain linked until Curt throws his head back, breathing heavily. He feels a wet tongue lavish his neck instead. The doctor's hips move fast and steadily, and Curt wraps his legs around him, holding on for dear life. They don't fuck enough. Curt can never quite get used to it, to the intoxication he feels when the doctor is inside him, to how he's hot and cold at the same time, how his heart feels ready to jump out of his chest at any second. 

He knows he has tears in his eyes, and it's just to hide them that he leans down for another kiss, holding the doctor's face with his hands, not letting him move even an inch away from him. 

"You'll do what I ask of you tomorrow, won't you," Dr. Grey asks with a hand around his dick, and Curt nods, blabbers his agreement as he comes; he's not even sure what he's saying ‘yes’ to, only that his come has made a mess of the doctors palm. He can feel the hot wave inside himself when his lover too reaches orgasm, and then leans on him, the smallest sign of sweat on his brow. 

Not much later the doctor moves, smiling and tucking himself away, his eyes once more distant. Curt sits with his legs open on the dirty counter, and the metal that covers them feels colder against his skin. The temperature of the very air in the room seems to have dropped, and the sweat makes Curt shiver. He gets up to find his pants. 

They should have broken into a house. Half of Miraland would be gathering in Pigeon for a styling contest. They would have found a warm bed to sleep in _easily_. Instead, Curt covered himself with his jacket and curled up on a corner; he could have slept on a medical stretcher, but the thought of what the doctor had done to people on those chilled his spine. 

His last sight before falling asleep was Dr. Grey Raven once more staring out through the dirty windows, his expression unreadable.


End file.
